


Sound & Color

by Father_Of_Death



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: 80s Jeremy, Other, What A World We Live In, ghost jeremy au, i revamped a whole entire au for this fic, yabababdbabdba its the 80s oh the 80s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-16 06:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12337077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Father_Of_Death/pseuds/Father_Of_Death
Summary: Jeremy Heere is the nerd, the loser and the personal punching bag of the 80s. Who wouldn't want to bully him? Michael Mell is the 'unique' kid of 2015, he has seen people who don't exist to the rest.





	1. A new world hangs

Jeremy sighs as he puts his foot on the bottom step leading towards the high school. His music is loud and blaring through the orange foam headphones and he can't help but feel alone. He's one of two-hundred students in his grade and the feeling of indifference to him disappearing was growing every day. He opens the door and the air-conditioned air rushes against him and causes his puffy naturally-curly hair to bounce back. The humidity of the New Jersey October is unbearable and the growing threat of the being murdered already making the city run on caffeine and adrenaline. Too many bodies piling up and the demands being made to the police. Jeremy blocked all of it out, the news only brings him the worst ideas. He passes the small vigil at the locker of the latest victim, a student at their little high school. Her name was Kristen, she had coming home when her parents were attacked and she was the second casualty. Just the thought of coming home to his dad; dead on the floor makes him shiver and sweat. His green and yellow striped sweater is too thin and always gives away his uncontrollable sweat glands so he pulls his dark brown jacket tighter around him. As much as the jacket absorbs the sweat, it also absorbs the spiteful whispers made Jeremy's way when he walks to his locker. The other lockers are covered in Halloween decorations, little pumpkins and ghosts and cartoony witches crashing into buildings. He passes Claire, a most-likely real-life witch who was out to get Jeremy, she sends a glare at Jeremy as she whispers something into her boyfriend's ear. Her lip-gloss covered mouth shining under the fluorescent lights, trying to seem picture ready every second of the day. Jeremy gulps and doesn't meet her eye, pushing his round wire-framed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose and adjusting one of the headphones as he slips passed a small group of girls gossiping about the football junkies moving down the hallway in a pack-like formation. If Jeremy didn't know better he would describe them as a pack of were-wolves looking for their sheep-dressed humans to berate and assault. Which meant Jeremy was  _unfortunately_  a sheep-dressed human. He reaches his little haven in the hallway—his locker—and quickly does the combination and opens it quickly with smooth motions. He removes the headphones from his ears and pauses the tape, he takes off his backpack and digs into it on the floor and grabs his folders and the one textbook he carries with him. He takes out the medium-sized, plastic, tan device out of the bag, his Microvision, and quickly ushers it into his locker. He goes back to grab a pencil from his bag and when he stretches his legs again he is pushed into his locker. 

His feet pressed into his bag and his whole head is inside his locker. The Calculus textbook broke his heads hard whip into the locker, but still hurts immensely. He backs away slightly, mainly using the maneuver to move his head out of the locker. The round lenses are right on Jeremy's nostrils and his head hurts, his arm still holding the folders and the book is gripped tightly around them. He tries to use his free hand to push his glasses back onto the bridge, the attempt not as futile as he thought and everything is no longer a blur of colors. He tries to get his bearings before trying to head to his first period, the rest of his peers moving and snickering at him as they pass. Complete and utter shame is the emotion running through his heart. He let his palm cradle his forehead as he tries to close his bag with his arm full of school supplies. He finally gets it once the bell rings and he rushes up, accidentally banging his head into his locker door and he winces once again. He goes to swing the bag onto his back and he hears a crinkle and uses the hand that cradled his head to pull off the most likely 'kick me' sign that the football team like to put on his back. He rips it off in the best way he can and then works the backpack onto his back and slams his locker door shut. He looks at the paper, as his eyes scanned the paper and the red text is done is a ransom note style declaring Jeremy 'THE LIGHTNING MAN'S NEXT VICTIM' with a cartoony chicken-scratch drawing of a lightning bolt holding a bloody knife under it. He gulps down the small amount of saliva and folds it up and shoves it into his jacket pocket as he rushes to his first class. He enters a second late and Mr. Pibb (his real name is Mr. Rogers but he has a very interesting obsession with the carbonated drink Mr. Pibb so that is his deemed nickname) and goes unnoticed by the teacher sitting in his desk. 

He rushes into his seat by the light switches and folds into himself like a piece of paper as his head is still rung with pain. And here is where it all started, since the beginning of the year Jeremy has sit by the light switches in every class which the teachers gave him the nickname of 'light guy' and that's how the current loose serial killer got to be his new taunt. Mr. Rogers finally starts the lesson and calls attendance, making Jeremy go through the awkward occurrence of saying "Present" instead of reiterating his last name. Jeremy picks at his brown leather bracelet as Mr. Rogers go on about the derivatives of sine and cosine, writing the mathematic equations on the board and describing them. Jeremy can't pay attention the more he sits in the classroom, his fellow classmates giggling and causing commotion. He can tell some of the whispers are about him, eyes on his left body stinging him like tranquilizer darts making him woozy and unable to function. The laughs go into his head, swirling and tormenting him because he will never be as cool as them, he will always be the lesser and nerdier kid. Time is slow in Middleborough, time is impossible to tell. The clocks are broken or Jeremy just can't read them, by the time his thoughts are over the bell has rung and Mr. Rogers has been completely exonerated the behavior of the class, acting like his whole lesson went in their ear and out the other. Jeremy puts everything in his bag and goes to exit the class, getting shoved into someone else's locker as the jocks behind him gave too much of a shit to make his everyday life a living hell. He starts to walk to his second class, getting stopped by people pretending to be electrocuted by him, using him as the biggest butt-end of a schoolwide joke he would never get. The comedic timing of most of his peers is impeccably terrible, it's hard and ruthless and ready to kill any self-esteem one once had. The rest of his morning classes go the same, the rest of his peers acting like they run the school. Jeremy tries to pay attention through the whispers and mocking of his glasses and hand-me-down clothes and his lack of friends. His lunch period is around twelve-thirty and he grabs his Microvision and paper bag lunch, the one-time his dad attempted to make him a lunch. He closes his locker and sees a small amount of vandalism, someone drew a lightning bolt in the corner of his locker with a blue marker. He sighs and has given up on ever cleaning it up and decides to walk towards the cafeteria and try to get to his usual table. The table is by the back doors and it's clear because of the fake spider webs haunting above it. The paper bag contains a small snack baggy of crackers, an orange and a ham and salami sandwich. He knew this would be his lunch's fate when he let his dad pack his lunch once, he was lucky it wasn't just a stick of salami since his mom's death his dad got into salami and the production of salami, probably a little too into it.  _"People have weird ways of coping, and mine is salami"_ his dad said, trying to explain his newfound obsession with the meat product. When did his family get so messed up? He never knew when it started but only that's how his family has been his whole life. 

Jeremy takes small bites out of his sandwich and peels the orange with a strange finesse. His bites are intertwined with actions in his game, a Star Trek game that he has yet to beat. A bag of batteries and extra game cartridges sits next to the rest of his lunch and the sandwich is given a small goodbye as the ratio of salami put on the cheddar-cheese-and-salami sandwich is more like one bread and two cheese to seven salami. He takes occasion crackers during his small gaming session and is interrupted by the bell ringing and he powers it off and throws away the paper bag. He should memorize the part of the game he got to, since his whole weekend is free and all he has to do is play games at the arcade and catch up on his reading assignment for his English III. The day flies by as slow as the morning, but less bearable as the day gets more humid and the gym teacher made them go outside to run. Jeremy's hair just got more poufy and the curls get out of hand, and the sweat isn't helping the amount of acne on his face go away. When the lesson is finished Jeremy sweat through his white cotton t-shirt and he doesn't want to walk anywhere else than to his car but he has to head to his final class and then he is home free.

He pulls his car into the driveway, the putrid green color glistening in the sunlight. His dad's car isn't in the driveway, giving Jeremy a sigh of relief and a small amount of worry. He gets out of the car and walks to the front door, the small one-story brick building is his house, but not his home. His mom died while they lived here, he has been here since he was a kid. He unlocks the door and enters the moderately temperate house, he kicks his shoes off into the bin and puts his keys on the hook and closes and locks the door behind him. He walks into the kitchen and puts his bag down on the table and goes to shower from the gym class he had to suffer through. Changing out of his clothes quickly and hoping into the slightly cold shower and washing all the sweat off of his body as he hums some of the songs from his tapes. The shower takes no less than ten minutes and Jeremy is busy working on his Physics work, memorizing the equations for velocity and acceleration due to gravity. His busy work goes on for about an hour and then his stomach growled and he decided to make dinner before his dad got home. He grabs a pot from the pantry and a box of pasta from the cabinet. The amount of water he puts into the pot is approximately two cups and he throws some salt in there to help it go quicker. He grabs a box of penne and scavenges around the scarce fridge and grabs a chunk of cheddar and lets the water start to boil. He makes a cheese sauce with added spices and seasonings and let the noodles soften in the boiled water. His dad gets home by the time he is done making an added side dish of macaroni salad that is two days old and is from the grocery store. His dad looks tired, working in realty is always a mess of people wanting things that they'll never get. This is the domesticity of the Heeres, a kid who tries and a dad who can't.


	2. Outside the window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock Knock Knock Knock

Jeremy takes a vigorous step on the concrete towards the school, a newfound confidence in that it's a Friday and he won’t have to see the horrid building again for two days. He can sit in his pajamas and go to the arcade and ignore everything that happens to him a school. His hair bounces with ever step and he has a small smile on his face. The weather seems to be on his side today, being slightly colder and more fall-ish. His merry walk to his locker is interrupted by a moment of uncertainty as the quarterback and two of his linemen encircling him so he can't escape. He knows exactly what is going to come of this exchange; it just  _had_  to be today. His one day of confidence and actual enjoyment of his life, just had to be ruined. He tries to step backwards, hoping to interrupt the circle with intercepting someone's walk path but ending up hitting the meat that is the chest of the wrestling team's leader.  _So much for getting out of this unscathed_. They grab ahold of him and push him towards the bathroom. He is shoved into the door, his whimper met with only snickers as they scare off any other kids in the bathroom, them quickly leaving the room and acting like Jeremy's desperate attempts at getting any reaction. His backpack is whipped off of him and thrown into a corner. He gulps down mucus in the recesses of his throat and a stall is opened and he is pushed into it. Jeremy hits the hard metal. The vandalism surrounding him is daunting, big and pompous and prodding. The main jockey steps into the stall and grabs Jeremy's shirt and getting in his face. They force him to the floor and shove his head into the toilet bowl, the water attacking his senses and he can't breathe. 

The group laugh at him, leaving the bathroom and leaving the sopping wet boy on the floor. His hair is dripping water on his red button up and darkening the color and looking like he had a nose bleed. His jacket is disheveled and glasses on the floor. He can't breathe properly, water flooding his lungs still. His legs are trembling and the vandalism on the stall doors seem to looming over him. They are shouting at him with any sort of profanity and are compiling to make a heinous jumbled mess. The bell rings, alerting Jeremy that his first period either started or ended. His mind is too shaken to be able to deal with the rest of the day, he can't even form correct thoughts. The crawl he made to the paper towel dispenser was pathetic, he tries to desperately not make his head look sopping wet. He whimpers as he feels a small patch of pain on his neck start to erupt as his heart rate is finally dropping. He needs to go home. He needs to go and sit in a warm bed with some form of hot liquid and ignore the world. The nurse lets him go, a blessing in his shitty day.

He pulls into the driveway and pops the tape out of the player and grab his messed-up bag and heads towards the house. He unlocks the door and enters, locking it behind him. The house is quiet and gives off an impression of sternness. He throws his bag onto the kitchen table and goes into his room, rifling through his drawers for a change of clothes. He grabs pajamas and heads into the bathroom, peeling off the jacket and hanging it on the hook on the door. The cargo pants require him to do a little jig as he works them off his skinny legs. The shirt, had the collar down to the pocket soaked in toilet water. It smelled terrible, his nose crinkling at the horrific smell. He shivers once it's fully unbuttoned and slowly takes it off, getting goosebumps in the places where the shirt was wet. He plops it down on the pants, his eyes moving to the sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes are gray and piercing, judging his light-skinned torso. He's lanky, too lanky in his opinion. His eyes drag up his right arm slowly, criticizing everything every vein or mole on his arm. His eyes stop on the small mole right under his collarbone, it's a mess. His body is disgusting to himself, he's pale and weak and fragile. His eyes meet up with his head in his reflection, his jaw is sharp and menacing, like he could cut himself with it any minute. His eyes glaze over the mole on his jaw skipping to his ears, the redness being from embarrassment and anger. He sweeps his look to his eyes, seeing the gray—more hazel-ish—color staring back at him. It's sort of melancholy-ish. His eyes aren't a color, one of the most definable traits in people. They used to be blue, when he was younger. They were a brilliant blue, one that made him jealous now. If only he could hold onto that blue, keep it in his eyes and let him look normal. Not like some daunting nerd that no one cares to speak to, he's a  _loser._ A pathetic insolent loner with no sort of talent besides playing arcade games at the local hangout downtown. 

He finally takes his gaze off of the gray, it was turning into static; a hard ringing static. He uses his right arm to push his body away from the built-in vanity. He turns towards the shower, ducking under the curtain and turning the nobs until water comes spitting out of the showerhead. He walks to the other side of the tub, stepping into it and moving his foot away quickly when he realizes his glasses and socks are still located on his body and he throws them out onto the pile of hand towels in a basket at the edge of the counter. He steps into the water, groaning at the extreme warmth of the water. He tries to cool it down slightly, it getting to be too cold and he sits down in the cold water and tries to get to it right. It's close and he stands up, the warm water hitting his face. He wipes it out of his eyes and turns to face the wall. His body is free of any identity, being a blank canvas that no one would notice in a heartbeat. The water flows down his back, soothing his muscles and letting him get the chance to wash away all his indiscretions. The internal timer in his head tells him to get out and he does, turning off the water and stepping out. He wraps a towel around his body and opens the door. The steam swirling around the room is released out. The rest of the house is freezing compared to the warmness of the bathroom, he can't help but shiver. He throws on his boxers and the green flannel pajama pants. He dries his torso quickly and throws on the t-shirt and puts the round glasses on his nose, his eyes not being able to see past the steam. He shakes his hair in a towel and tries to dry it. 

His plans turn to working on projects ahead of time and calling teachers and asking what the assignments were. He was writing out the answers and listening to his records loudly until his body recognized hunger and force him to not be able to concentrate any longer, he makes eggs a ding-dong ditch happening in the middle and Jeremy concludes it was just the kids down the street. He sits in his room and listens to his records over and over. The time was eight o'clock when he realized how late his dad is, and he was about to get up and call him when a loud crash comes from the living room and Jeremy can't breather anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of this hellstorm! I wanted it to be 2k words but eh I am a lazy hoe so its 1.3k! More chapters to come! But only a couple, this fic is caput after the 31st! Thanks for reading!


	3. Beautiful and Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't breathe

Jeremy quickly turns off his light and goes to hide under his bed, the thought of someone burglaring the house being utterly terrifying. He tries to regulate his breathing, trying to hear what is going on in the living room. The person’s step is heavy, like they are wearing a heavy work boot. The door makes a feeble attempt to go shut after this, making Jeremy's breathing quicken. He needs to grasp his sanity and cling to it so he doesn’t give away his hiding spot. He's seen this in the horror films, he'll make a sound and get found out and die. Maybe it's the serial killer, maybe he won't survive the night. Or maybe he will, maybe they'll take what they want and leave. But the thud of the footsteps stop his spiraling thoughts, and sets him into a quick panic mode at the footsteps start to make their way towards the kitchen; overlooking anything worth taking in the living room. It's drawn out, like they are looking for something. Or maybe someone? Jeremy tries to scoot against the backwall, being as quiet as possible to slide past long-forgotten socks and the dryer sheets that litter the underbelly of his bedframe. His socked foot hits the wall and he tries to shrink his lanky body to be smaller than it is, trying to not alarm the person currently walking towards the bathroom door, conveniently next to the kitchen and  _Jeremy's bedroom_. He coves his mouth so he doesn't make a sound in his fetal-position stupor. 

The person kicks open the bathroom door, terrifying Jeremy and causing him to curl into himself more than he should be able to. His glasses are askew and digging into the bridge of his nose. The little rubber pads pressing with harder force compared to his usual leisurely wear of the glasses. The footsteps are muffled with the amount of wall and plaster separates Jeremy and the perpetrator. The bathroom is a fruitless endeavor for the stranger in the house. The loud footsteps turned toward Jeremy's door, opening it slowly and flicking the light on. Jeremy tried hard to remain still, to not move. He can't give away his position or he won't be able to survive the night. The footsteps linger in the room as the person is looking at all the knick-knack and books in Jeremy's room. They pick up something, dropping it to the floor and slamming one of their feet onto it. It had to be the frame, it had to be. The last photo of them all together. He gulps down a whimper, wanting to salvage the last tie to her. 

The footsteps are gone, down the hall and most likely headed towards Jeremy's dad's room. And an idea hits Jeremy straight in the face,  _the gun locker in the basement_. If he can get to it he can at least protect himself against the possible assailant in the house. He inches himself to the edge of the bed quietly, and starts to crawl towards the door. He lifts himself up, hoping to not creak the floor as he goes to open the door slowly. The basement door is down the hall and a straight sprint from his current position. He closes the door slowly, pumping himself up for the run. How does he move his arms as he runs? Is there anything in the hallway that he could trip on? Is the person still in his dad's room? Will he die tonight? He can't think like this, he has to get to that safe. It's the only thing he has as a weapon and the passcode has to still be his mom's birthday. He opens the door again, huffing the quietest he can and he sprints to the door. The attention of a certain horrifying figure at the end of the hallway makes Jeremy run faster, reaching the door and swinging the door open and quickly getting into it and locking the door behind himself. The footsteps behind him are lumbering and swift and there is a sharp knock on the door that shakes Jeremy's body and he tried to flick on the light so he can go down the stairs. He speeds down the stairs, tripping down halfway through and rolling down that steps. The breath was taken out of his chest and he can't help but feel ache all over his body. He tries to move up to his knees and there are increasingly loud bangs on the door and the hinges are groaning and the door is going to give at some point. He starts to limp towards the cabinet, hearing the wood start to crack under the hands of the unknown. Jeremy gets to the door and fidgets with the lock. He gets the combination correct the third time, ushering off the chain and opening the door, finding nothing but empty cabinet and any hope of surviving the night falling through his body and entering the floor. 

He has no line of defense and no way out, it's a basement not a bomb shelter. He slams the cabinet shut and then the loud crack of the door breaking and half of it tumbling down the stairs. Jeremy tries to gulp down his fear but it doesn't even reach his Adam's apple before his throat goes dry. The steps down the stairs are slow and menacing, the first glimpse of the work boot making Jeremy shiver. A trench-coat that reaches the top of the boots and a long baton-like weapons that is emitting a low humming sound. Jeremy's gray eyes trail up the figure and the look on the face is full of mirth and a sadistic pleasure from seeing Jeremy trembling in their presence. 

Jeremy doesn't even think about trying to escape, getting gripped by the collar and the confident murderer standing in the basement with a sly grin and pulling back their arm. Jeremy can't even think before electricity is sent through his body and he can't breathe. It's all swirling into a hurricane of emotion, and pain. The electricity is making him numb, pins and needles felt in every limb and it's lingering when the weapon is pulled away. Drool falls out of his mouth and his body is a ragdoll, limbs pointed towards the floor with the weight affecting him and the tiredness of his brain not attributed to his heart beating extremely fast. His eyes lull open and closed until he hears shuffling coming from the stranger and tried to look down, seeing a switchblade being pulls from the pocket. His mind is too frazzled to be able to identify the item as a threat until it is in his chest and puncturing his lungs. He can't breathe anymore, blood everywhere while the person has a grin. A grin, they are enjoying it, deriving pleasure from Jeremy dying.  _What a sick bastard_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY MCHECKING HALLOWEEN!  
> I'M GONNA GO PASS OUT!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my fic! I love this fic likes its a child!
> 
> tumblr: jeremiahereeh  
> discord: manananggal (on the bmc discord)


End file.
